


Bruised

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Real Life Fairytale [2]
Category: Kim Possible (Cartoon)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Romance, Episode - Gorilla Fist, F/M, Hero-Villain Relationship, Hero-Villain Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 15:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6334516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A fight with him always leaves her bruised.  In more ways than one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised

**Author's Note:**

> The next installment in the "Real Life Fairytale" series; it can be read as parallel to "Impulse", in that several of the same events are repeated here in a different POV. Rating is for mildly suggestive circumstances.

“So, why are we going back?”

For what seems an hour—a long and heavy hour that in reality is only about five seconds long—she pauses. Her shoulders tighten, her hands clench, long enough that she feels the pressure and discomfort but short enough that she knows no one else sees the gesture, and her eyes stare ahead blankly. Her eyes stare at the cliffs, at the waterfall rushing downward in misty torrents, at the trees moving beneath the wind that blows hard and fast in this place, and sees none of it. It all blurs together into indiscernible shapes and colors, then darkens and clarifies into _his_ face, _his_ blue eyes gazing at her—physically beneath her and yet somehow still looking down at her. The roar of the cascade and the echo of the wind enter her ears and distort into _his_ voice, speaking words that echo one hundred, one thousand times. Words she has heard in her sleep, in her waking thoughts, everywhere, anywhere.

_“Shall I show you what else gets the job done?”_

Her mouth tingles. It’s almost unpleasant, but not really, because her lips are remembering, as her mind is, those words and that night, the way his mouth had felt pressed against hers and the way his hands had felt running through her hair, tangling within the strands and drawing her closer. Her body tingles, recalling the way his had fit to hers and the way she had clutched at him and arched against him and _needed_ him…

_“I will see you again, Kimberly.”_

Somehow, she thinks, with an unamused quirk of the lips, this isn’t quite what he had in mind when he made such a promise. This isn’t how she would have planned it, or expected it, or imagined it. She had thought their next encounter would follow the usual script: get the call, fight the bad guy—fight _him_ —and go home. Admittedly, the script would have required slight modification on her part: decide how she was felt about the kiss, and what she would next do about it. She’s thought about it, a little, in the months since passed, and thought perhaps she would let him make the next move.

Now, she appreciates how foolish, how childish, and how cowardly the thought was. That’s not how the game works. He has made his move, and now it’s her turn to respond. The fact she returned the kiss is not enough of an answer, and she knows it. _He_ knows she knows it. The kiss, the fact he’d kissed her and she’d kissed him in return, is of no surprise to them. The rest of the world would be surprised, horrified, perhaps even believe she was unlawfully coerced into such behavior, but not her, and not him. A kiss was the last expected move to make, and yet it was the only one to take. This is the way of their game. This is the way of their bond.

***

It’s not a bond she ever imagined forming, especially with him: Lord Montgomery Fiske, renowned archeologist, world-respected scholar, and her secret idol. The strange man with sharp blue eyes that had spoken to her even through a television screen, even when their color was muted across the newspaper headline. The strange man with hair too dark and skin too pale and eyes too blue. And a mind that held so much knowledge, a wealth of understanding about the world that she could have only dreamt of.

He’d been a world apart, a stranger to her, and it had been safe. It had been safe to watch the documentaries and read the news articles, to listen to his well-cultured voice and watch the careful, calculated motions of his hands. It had been safe to imagine, to dream, to fantasize. It had been safe to throw herself into the wishes of a little girl and picture a thousand different ways she might meet this strange and wonderful man, to present herself as refined and elegant as he, and to have him be so impressed that he would eagerly share all he knew with her. It had been safe to carry on conversations between him and her, within the secrecy of her mind, where he would feed her curiosity and tell her of his travels and she would tell him of hers and they would laugh about mishaps made, solemnly acknowledge the lessons learned, and smile with the knowledge that they’d do it all over again.

It had been a wonderful dream. A dream, yes, but a wonderful one. And a safe one. Until it wasn’t a dream anymore.

_“The archeologist?”_ she’d asked, and her breath had caught and her mind had spun and her heart had stopped beating. It had been a rhetorical question. She’d known. She’d known it was him. He had sought out her help. He had called for her assistance, and she’d answered without pause, without hesitation, and without a plan. 

But what use were plans, she’d thought? This was it. This was everything she’d ever wanted, her dream coming true! Who needed plans? This was meant to be, the meeting she’d longed for and dreamed of. Everything would fall into place. She didn’t need a plan.

Long before he’d made proper introductions, before he’d even spoken, she’d known it was him. The Cambodian shadows had done nothing to dim the brilliance of his eyes. Bright blue, sharp and piercing, she’d known him in the instant she’d met his gaze. It had taken every bit of her collected willpower to not tremble at the sound of his voice, at the way he had said her name. It had taken every bit of self-control and dignity to not become a curious child in his presence, to implore him for even a glimpse of all his knowledge, all his experience, all the adventures he must have had and all the wonders he must have seen. He’d been, for want of a better word, a client, seeking her help, and she’d been there to provide a service. It hadn’t—shouldn’t have—mattered that she’d been fantasizing every detail of this moment, of their meeting, since the first time she’d seen his face and heard his voice. She wasn’t there to socialize.

And yet…it had been so easy, too easy, to forget all that. It had been easy to forget when he’d been standing close to her and letting her share his personal space, when she’d asked him questions and he’d answered without waver or scolding her curiosity, when they’d sat around a campfire and she’d lost herself in the conversation with him. Nothing else had mattered. It had been perfect. Everything she’d ever wanted. A dream come true.

The unexpected turn of the evening had been just that: _unexpected_. She’d thought it had been an easy mission, another success to write home about and tuck under the proverbial belt. But no, nothing in life is so easy; not when a masked ninja had emerged, clutching the statue to his chest. There had been no additional thought involved, no pause, no careful calculations made. This strange masked figure had the coveted prize of her client, and there had been only one choice: fight.

And then…something had happened. She had fought many a fight before, but something had changed. Something had become different in that moment. Beneath the Cambodian trees and a warm starry night, she’d battled a stranger for the prize which was hers to return and not his to steal, and yet it hadn’t felt like a fight. It had been a dance. Two steps forward, one jump back, one arm strikes, one leg kicks, over and over and over again, until he’d suddenly decided it was time to end the game and cut the dance to short, too soon. It would be a lie, even now, to pretend she hadn’t been disappointed.

It had been her greatest shame to admit defeat to him, her idol, her unexpected customer, the source of her deepest admiration. Perhaps then, she should have been suspicious, should have wondered at his lacking disappointment. But at the time, nothing had mattered, save her resolve to somehow, someway, make things right. It had been a ridiculous self-imposed mission, but she’d made the vow nonetheless. Only once she’d returned home, once she was back in her perfect world, did she appreciate how impossible the mission was, even for her.

The chance to seek his help again had been an unforeseen opportunity, but one she’d practically jumped at. One chance to step into his world had been a dream come true; a second was practically a fantasy unleashed, and her imagination had spun all manner of possibilities, all the different ways this could end, what might be different about this, how it very possibly could lead to something more…

And then reality had dealt her a firm, unyielding blow upside the head. Family obligations, no matter how annoying or mind-numbing, had to come first. The disappointment had been heavy upon her heart, and though she’d chastised herself for it, for acting like a child, she hadn’t been able to shake it. Not completely.

But the disappointment of being denied another meeting with him had, ultimately, paled in comparison to the crushing blow dealt when her cousin—innocently enough, yes, but even an innocent comment can create violent destruction—had revealed the truth, when all the missing pieces had fallen into place, when the resulting image was incriminating, and it all pointed directly to him. It had been like falling, striking her head against a concrete wall, and then having to stagger back on her feet and continue the fight. Anger had fueled her forward, kept her going to ensure the safety of her best friend. Relief at seeing Ron returned home, in one piece and unharmed, had kept her composure when in company. Flimsy excuses had gotten her an early reprieve, the chance to sneak out and escape back to the sanctity of her bedroom.

And then she’d collapsed on her bed, knees tucked close, arms wrapped tight around her chest, fingers digging into both shoulders, forehead pressed hard against her limbs. And she’d cried. Cried until her throat was hoarse, her eyes burned, and her body ached from the exertion of shed tears and stifled sobs. Cried until she was certain there were no more tears left for her to cry. Cried for hopes dashed, dreams broken, trust destroyed, and lies accepted. Cried for her childish mind and naïve heart which she had taken in and believed every word from his mouth. Cried for the deceit she’d felt running through her system like acid, like poison.

And when she’d finished crying, when her eyes were dry and hurting from the outpour, she’d cast away her childhood, her trusting heart, her innocent mind. Cast it away, condemned it, and vowed to never again be so easily used and manipulated. She would never fall so low, so hard, and be so broken again. Never again, she’d vowed. Never again.

***

The next time they met, in the cool corridor of her father’s space center, she heard his voice first and known it, without pause and without assistance. With the sound of his voice in her ears, the ache returned, the burn of his betrayal hot in her veins and deep in her core. Anger resurfaced, harder and more vicious than before, and she numbed her mind and heart to anything other than retribution. She would have vengeance for his crimes against her. It hadn’t mattered that he looked thinner, older, all of it evidence that he’d been half-starved in prison. It hadn’t mattered that the shadows beneath his eyes were more prominent, as though permanently etched into the skin. Nothing had mattered, only revenge.

But he hadn’t let her have victory. He took advantage of a moment’s distraction and trapped her, alone, with him, where she wouldn’t be rescued, not until he was done with her. She hadn’t know just what he’d wanted with her, what his plan had been. She only clung to her anger, her resentment, and waited for him to stop playing games and lay out the terms.

In retrospect, she could see how foolish she’d been. This game…it wasn’t just a whim. It wasn’t just another ploy used by him to distract her. She wanted it to be. Each time he stopped fighting and talked to her, even though she hadn’t wanted to hear the words coming out of his mouth, she transformed it all into a ruse, an exceptionally dramatic scheme to try and get into her head and ensure his own victory. Except it wasn’t, and she should have known. She should have known better.

But…would it have really mattered? She hadn’t wanted to hear it. She didn’t want him telling her about the flaws of her perfect world and her perfectly-ordered life. She wanted to keep thinking of him as her enemy, the man who had manipulated her, used her, and betrayed her. She wanted to keep him as the villain, never more the man she’d admired and from who she’d wanted to learn anything and everything.

And yet, she could only feel that he’d known. He’d known how resilient she was and how defiant she would be. It hadn’t stopped him.

_“As are you, Kimberly. As are you.”_

A lie. That’s what he’d called her. A _lie_. He’d taken her insult, turned it around, and thrown it back at her. Only this time, it had pierced her in the heart. Broken through her carefully-constructed defenses, shattered her walls and composure, and ripped into her heart. And then it had buried itself there, so deep she hadn’t a prayer of wrenching it out, and festered.

How many times? How many times had she stared at herself in the mirror and tried to see herself? How many times had she looked, examined, and tried to see past the pretty exterior and find what she felt inside? How many times had she searched for the ugliness behind the beauty, the wild animal behind the pretty princess, the reckless creature behind the perfect girl? How many times had she tried…and found nothing? Found nothing, and thus she’d simply let herself believe it was all a lie, convinced her doubting heart that his all-knowing insight was nothing but a sham, and resolved it was just some obscure feeling that would pass.

But it hadn’t passed. 

That night—that kiss—had ruined everything. Had ruined _her_. It wasn’t enough that he managed to usurp her attempt to capture him. It wasn’t enough that he took her lips, her kiss, without permission and ignored her every attempt to fight him off. No…he had to take more. He took her control, her resistance, her defiance. He made her want the kiss. He made her want more. He made her _want him_.

She returned home, halfway in a daze, triumphant only because he hadn’t actually tried to steal the amulet, and leaned heavily against her closet. And then she looked in her mirror.

The girl who had looked back at her was not the girl she’d seen before. The shy lift of her smile, the bright glow of her eyes, the pristine and perfect vision, was gone. All of it. Her scalp carried the feel of his hands, her hair thrown into disarray from his fingers cradling her head and keeping her close. Her mouth was flushed red, burning from the kiss he set to her lips, bruised from the kiss she set to his. There was a tiny, almost invisible, imprint on her lower lip from the prick of his teeth. Her eyes were dark, but not empty. No…her eyes were full of emotion. Her eyes burned, two green-fringed windows into her soul. It was a soul she didn’t wanted to recognize, a soul she didn’t wanted to claim as her own, but there was no looking away or disowning it. The soul she saw was hers, and it was a soul that knew desire, and knew what it was to want someone, and knew what it was to need someone.

***

“Because it’s the right thing to do.” She answers, turning to look back into her best friend’s questioning eyes, the bewilderment written across his face. The exasperation in her voice, in all likelihood, is heard and interpreted as embarrassment, understanding the ridiculousness of what she’s about to do but resigned to it nonetheless because it is her nature. 

They don’t need to know the truth. They don’t need to know it’s a rehearsed, pre-planned response to mask the truth, to hide the real answer that will not be spoken aloud. Not to them, anyway. That truth is reserved for her, and for the one person who will understand. Who has always understood.

“So, we’re rescuing the bad guy.” Ron clarifies, and she heaves a silent sigh. Yes, of course, because she’s such a saint, such a genuinely good person that it isn’t beneath her to rescue the bad guy. To play savior to anyone and everyone, even the ones she calls enemy. It’s the making of a new headline, a new piece of fame to add and attach to her name and reputation. The very thought makes her nauseous.

“Something like that.” She nods, then turns away again because she can’t keep the betraying emotions from presenting themselves any longer. The mask she wears, the one she hadn’t been aware of wearing until recently, until him, is becoming heavier, more of a burden. She wants to rip it off and throw it away and deny its existence for good. She has to. Somehow. Someway.

It would be easier for someone else to do it for her. To have someone else force her to rip it off and force her to expose the soul beneath, to reveal the truth behind fame and legend. But that, she knows, is the coward’s way out. And she is not a coward. Not anymore.

***

It happens so fast. Too fast. Her composure slips from her grasp, dissolves and fades like mist in the air. Her better judgment shatters in the same instant that her mind breaks apart and leaves only one thought intact. Her vision clouds, blind to all else that exists in this moment and this place, save for the image directly in front of her. Her breath leaves in one unsteady, rushed exhale, and her heart clenches inward, tightly, before suddenly erupting into a frantic and erratic rhythm that hammers against her ribcage and leaves her disoriented, dizzy, and yet pulsing with life.

This…this _thing_ …whatever, whoever it is that lured them here, brought them to this place, sent four of them over the cliffs and stole away the fifth…he, she, _it_ is holding him. Touching him. Speaking to him. And she recognizes the words about to come out of it’s mouth: _I…want…_

No. _No._ She will not let it finish those words. She knows what the last word is, and it will not be spoken. She is the only one allowed to speak those words. They will be spoken from her lips and her tongue first. Not this thing. Not anyone else. Her. _Only_ her.

“ _Let him go_.” The voice she hears, the voice coming out of her mouth and speaking these words, doesn’t sound like hers. It’s cold, angry, and vicious. Like an animal claiming her mate. Her stance isn’t the usual confident pose she usually wears, not the hero sweeping in to save the day. Every muscle, every limb is tight, rigid, and the blood in her veins is hot, too hot, and rushing too fast through her system. 

Intellectually, she knows it’s dangerous to be like this when preparing for combat. She’s too focused on what lies in front of her, not looking around for approaching danger or looming threats. The rest of her brain has switched to a different mode altogether: a hunter’s mind, with a hunter’s perception. She knows the people standing next to and behind her. They are friends, allies, posing no threat. She knows the creatures standing in front of her. They are enemies, threats, and one of them is trying to stake a claim on what is _hers and hers alone_.

Her words are a challenge, an invitation to war, and they are received as such. An attack is brought, advancing towards her without pause. She faintly hears Ron yelp in fear, shout out a warning to her, but it means nothing. She will not be stopped. She cannot be stopped. Nothing can stop her. Nothing, and no one.

She throws herself through the air, dodging blow after blow. Part of her feels invincible, untouched, but she also knows there are attacks which hit their mark, which toss her against the wall, skid her along the floor, because she feels her body bruise and her skin break and bleed. But nothing stops her. She will not stop. _I cannot be stopped._

A well-aimed blow hits her from behind, knocks her down, and she feels a new bruise rise as her hip bangs against the wall. She staggers, only briefly, but it’s enough of a pause for another attack to be prepared. She looks up, just in time to see a massive fist rising above her head, aiming for her face, or perhaps her chest, or anywhere else she is particularly vulnerable…

And then, before the blow can fall, a dark shape hurls itself at her from the left. Together, they skid across the floor, his body taking most of the friction, her suddenly, somehow, tucked in his arms, close to his chest. Her mind is traitorous, drinking in the sensations, envisioning what it might be like to be his arms more often, to lie with him this way at night, away from the world, away from…from everything. 

By the time they come to rest at the far wall, she’s no longer in his arms but on the floor, he’s braced over her, and she looks away from the mayhem and confusion, to meet the narrow blue eyes glaring down at her.

“Is it so terribly difficult for you to exercise some caution?” he hisses, hands fisting beside her head. “Rushing in here like that? What were you thinking?”

“I’m thinking I should have let you get out of this mess yourself!” she snaps, matching his glare. “Unless, of course, you’d rather stay here. With _that_.”

The minute the word hits the air, she cringes. She hears the jealousy, ringing out like a poorly-tuned bell, and she knows he hears it too. Hears it, recognizes it, and it lifts his eyebrows and the corners of his mouth in an expression she doesn’t necessarily like.

“Kimberly,” she does not quake at the way his voice lowers, at the way his voice sounds wrapped around her name, but she can’t stop her mind from envisioning a multitude of scenarios in which he might say her name, exactly as he is now, over and over and over…“are you jealous?”

She could lie. _Should_ lie, actually. But she doesn’t, because to lie is to play the old game, and she’s done with the old game. It’s done nothing but hurt her, bruise her, and break her. She’s done.

“Don’t ask me a question when you already know the answer.” She answers, tone low, but lacking the earlier coldness. It’s been replaced by something else, something she doesn’t know how to properly identify. Or doesn’t want to. Or can’t.

“Say it.” He says, leaning closer. There’s less than an inch between his face and hers now. All she would have to do is lean forward, and his mouth would be hers. “Say it, Kimberly. _Admit_ it.”

Something tightens in her core, creeps up through her chest, forces its way through her throat, and presses hard against her lips. Her eyes burn, and she thinks, perhaps, there are tears forming at the corners. She can’t blink, because they’ll fall—though it occurs to her, briefly, they might just begin to fall of their own accord and it doesn’t really matter if she blinks or not. 

But she doesn’t blink, and the tears don’t fall. Her vision blurs, distorts, and then his face comes back into focus. The same face she once coveted in her imagination, her childish fantasies. The same blue eyes that saw her soul, her true face, long before she even knew it existed. The same lips that told her lies, then told her the truth, and then kissed her. He is a mess of contradictions, of mixed messages, and yet she thinks he might be the most transparent person she’s ever met.

“Yes.” She whispers, not trusting her voice won’t break if she speaks louder. “I am. I’m jealous.” Her eyes narrow, and she shifts just enough to close the distance, to change the game, to catch him off-guard, and her lips hover over his, brushing softly. “Jealous enough to rush in here. Without caution, without care. All to take back what’s mine.” She smirks against his mouth, tears dried and forgotten, and she feels a tight shiver run through his limbs. “You should be familiar enough with that, right?”

He doesn’t have the chance to respond; she moves first, shoving him away and out of the path of two large fists which fly down, narrowly missing him and coming an inch away from crushing her left leg. Two backward flips, a sharp twist to the left, and her stance is ready again, eyes sharp and attention alert. She will not be taken off-guard again.

***

Her renewed efforts prove successful, another victory, another triumph, another villain exposed. Were she still playing the old game, wearing her old mask, the villain’s identity wouldn’t bother her. She might even be a bit amused. But she’s not, because she’s not playing the old game and she’s not wearing her old mask. This is a new game, the masks are off, and there’s a very large, very vicious part of her that wants to exact revenge.

But she doesn’t. She takes advantage of her companions’ distracted state, of the confusion which still lingers throughout this place, and slips out without notice. She climbs up, to a place where earth is a breath away from touching the sky, to the edge with the heavens above and a cascade crashing inches from her feet, and stands there. Stands there, and looks down.

The falls are heavy, thick torrents rushing unchecked before they crash into the river below. The two bodies of water conceive a haze of mist, streaming upward, coiling outward, blurring the edges of rocks and distorting the image of what scant plant life has managed to grow between boulders, until they dissipate. It’s beautiful. Uncertain, broken, and unconventional, but beautiful.

“A dangerous perch, Kimberly.” He speaks, unexpectedly, from behind, and she closes her eyes as warm relief trickles down her spine and relaxes her stance. He hasn’t abandoned her. He hasn’t left her again, as before. He’s still here.

She doesn’t turn to look at him, not yet, but she knows the smirk on her lips is heard in her voice. “I thought you lived for danger.”

He responds in kind; she can hear the dry amusement and matching smirk. “I do still possess my common sense. And standing at the edge of a cliff, where the rocks are very slick and wet and your balance is anything but guaranteed, does not immediately speak of common sense.”

She shrugs. “Maybe I’ve grown a taste for risk.”

She hears him step closer. “Have you now?”

“Perhaps.”

Another three steps closer. “And how much of a risk are you willing to take, Kimberly?”

She turns, at last, and meets his gaze with hers. Her eyebrows are lifted, her eyelids lowered, and her mouth is curved upward. She’s not sure if she’s smirking, smiling, or some unknown combination thereof. Whatever it is, she must wear it well, because she sees a gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. She can’t help but feel he’s been waiting to see this for a long time. Maybe even longer than she realizes.

Her actions speak in place of words; arms outstretched, like the wings of a bird leaving the nest for its first flight, its first real venture out into the unknown, she falls backwards. Gravity quickly embraces her, wraps her within its hold, and carries her downward. She closes her eyes, devoting other senses to the feel of wind rushing through her hair, the warm mist encompassing her, caressing her skin, the roar of the cascade in her ears, the feeling of falling without security, without any guarantee of what will meet her below, of what is waiting for her…

But it is not the river that catches her. Instead, two arms seize her around the waist, and then her direction abruptly changes: to the right, then the left, and her senses undergo a momentary shock when they are submerged in the waterfall. Cold water crashes down over her, soaks the skin, drenches her hair, and seeps beneath her clothes. And then the water is gone; she has fallen through the glassy veil and into another world. Rock, smoothed by time and water’s delicate attention, is beneath her, and a short distance away the cascade is woven think into a curtain which creates a secure portal between this world and the one just beyond the veil.

She looks upward, into blue eyes that put even the water’s vibrant color to shame. His body is equally soaked by the falls; droplets fall lightly from his dark hair and hit her forehead, cheeks, and the ground beside her head. He braces over her on both hands, keeping distance between them, yet overshadowing her. She feels small, yet she feels equal to him.

“Ask me.” He whispers, and his voice doesn’t sound quite like his own. Low, restrained, controlled, and yet she thinks it is a control which will be short-lived. Once more, they are close, very close, too close, and still not close enough. Once more, the boundaries are being tested, tried, and she’s confident that, before this night is done, they will be broken.

He leans closer, his breathing tight, constricted. She’s never seen him like this. She likes it. She likes it quite a bit. “Ask me again, Kimberly.” 

She holds his gaze, never blinking or looking away, and lifts one hand to his face. The sharp exhale is like music to her ears, and she smiles. “What do you want?” she murmurs, but this time it is less a demand and more a question to which she already knows the answer. But she wants to hear it. She wants him to say it, and say it now when they are alone and there will be no interruptions.

He leans closer still, mouth hovering just above hers, not yet kissing, not quite touching, but very close. So very close. “You.”

Her eyebrows lift, just slightly, and as she draws him closer, with only the hand on his face, she tilts her head up to brush her lips against his, a ghosting caress. “You know,” she murmurs, a smile playing across her lips, “I think we’re finally making progress…Monty.”

He might have growled, might have sighed, or something in between; she isn’t completely sure, and she isn’t bothered to find out. He also might have had a response, or a demand, or some strange inquiry to follow her breach of this unspoken boundary between them. She doesn’t care about that either, and she doesn’t think he really cares either, because both hands are in his hair now and her lips are against his, kissing him with all the fervor and unashamed desire which she’d showed him that night. And this time he isn’t holding himself at bay, restraining himself, or attempting self-control. His hands slide beneath her, fingers pressing firm into her shoulder blades and bringing her tight to his chest. She feels the beat of his heart, just below his ribs, erratic and unsteady, and it is a marvel to her that she could do such a thing to him. He, the one always in control, composed, refined, surrendering it all just to feel her against him, in his arms, against his mouth. It is amazing.

At some point, they both need to breathe. She’s a little irritated with her body’s natural requirement of air, when it interferes and forces her to break the kiss, and so she compensates by keeping her arms locked around his shoulders and her forehead resting against his. This kind of intimate closeness is very new, very unfamiliar to her, but if it always feels this incredible, she’s happy to repeat the experience, over and over and over and over…

He kisses her again, shifting onto his knees and bringing her with him, arms around each other, her legs loosely draped over his hips, his hand in her hair and her hands in his. Around them, she hears the soft trickle of loose droplets and the continuing cascade of the falls that keeps them safe and protected, even if only for a few short moments.

When he pulls back again, it’s with a small smirk resting against her lips. “You’re blushing.”

“Yes, I’m sure.” She answers with a cocky expression that’s probably bordering on ridiculous and absurd. She’s hiding behind a waterfall in the middle of the jungle, wrapped in the arms of one of her most notorious and formidable foes, the same one she’s vowed to hate and despise and defeat for almost three years. The same one who has been the direct and indirect cause of multiple bruises, sprained limbs, scratches and small gashes, and most prominently, psychological torment and frustration.

He’s also the one she just rescued and sought out and kissed, twice, and now kisses for the third time. The one she still respects and admires, no matter what he’s done and what she’s sure he’ll continue to do in months and years to come; the one who could teach her things no one else can, in ways purely unique to him, who would appreciate and encourage her questions and curiosity, nurture it and push it even further; the one who could break her limits and help her rebuild new ones, and then show her how to break those and the ones that come after it. The one she wants, and needs, and, possibly, quite possibly, improbably and ridiculously and dangerously and oh, so truly, is falling in love with.

***

Her mother greets her with a tight hug and expressed concern about how late she returns, about how Ron was frantic that something had happened to her during the separation, and asks the obligatory questions that a mother should, and always will, ask. She smiles, eyes bright and expression beaming, returns the hug, and promises she’s fine. Actually, she’s better than fine. She’s fantastic.

“It sounds like your trip to the jungle was a success.” Her mother praises as they walk into the dining room and sit with her father and brothers for dinner; she tucks away a small smile and simply nods her agreement. 

Her father mirrors the same sentiment, noting how she looks much livelier and the way her smile seems much bigger and much brighter. She shrugs idly, still smiling, and says a change of venue can be good for the soul. Especially when it’s in the heart of Mother Nature, with clear skies and beautiful scenery and fresh air. Her mother looks delighted at this change, at such a turnaround from the quiet, almost sullen demeanor of the past few weeks; her father agrees, and her brothers make a half-muttered comment between each other about how she and Ron probably kissed or something equally unappealing to their young minds. Again, she hides her responsive smirk and pretends she didn’t hear anything. They have no idea.

“You know,” she says, after dinner is finished and the family is gathered on the couch in front of the television, watching the evening news, “I really did have fun in the jungle. So much so, that I’ve been thinking of doing some more traveling.”

Her words peak interest, immediately. “Honey,” her mother says, “you travel all over the world with your missions. Where on earth have you not been?”

She shrugs, again, “It’s not about where I haven’t been. It’s about where I’ve been and haven’t taken in all the beauty and history and…well, just everything that’s there to be seen. I’m always in such a rush whenever I go on missions. There’s never any time to just explore and enjoy it. Today, I was able to take the time, even for just a little bit. I’d like to do it again. The summer break is coming up, and I think it would be a good time to do some globe-trotting.”

Her father expresses some concern about her going alone, but the protest is swiftly ignored by her mother, who enthusiastically offers her agreement and consent and blessing, with the condition that she send postcards and take lots of pictures and write as often as she can, or use Wade as a communication liaison. She promises to do all of the above, and embraces both parents as an extra gesture of gratitude.

“So,” her mother adds, “where to first?”

She looks back at the television screen, where the news reporter is announcing the re-capture of mad scientist DN-Amy, smirks with no small sense of smug satisfaction, and shrugs. “I was thinking…Cambodia.”


End file.
